


(definitely not) A Consulting Cook

by ConsultingNargle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cooking Lessons, Food, M/M, prelude to sexytimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingNargle/pseuds/ConsultingNargle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attempts to teach Sherlock to cook. The results are mixed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	(definitely not) A Consulting Cook

The tiny kitchen of 221B was a complete mess. For once though it wasn’t blood and eyeballs which covered every surface but food; splashes of tomato puree splattered the cupboard doors and the brown oak table now resembled a ransacked market stall as opposed to a chemistry lab. There was really only one explanation for all this – John was teaching Sherlock how to cook. 

A hiss came from the hobs on top of the oven followed a string of expletives barked in an impossibly low drawl. Sherlock stood with his hands on his hips just a step away from the crisis centre. John had to restrain a laugh when he saw the harassed expression splashed across his face and the various splodges which speckled his normally pristine shirts. Even the bare alabaster skin below the rolled up sleeves had not survived the experience unscathed and there was a spot on the side of his nose that John had the strongest desire to just wipe clean with the tip of his nimble tongue. 

“John, forget it. I give up! I told you there just isn’t room in my database for unnecessary things like cooking.” He shot a glance at his flatmate/boyfriend/partner that was usually reserved for bad reality TV and occasionally when John pointed out that there were some places in which it just wasn’t acceptable for them to shag (although they had concluded that Lestrade’s empty office wasn’t one of them). “Happy now?”

“Not particularly. What will you do if I’m not here? I’m not having Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, starving to death simply because he can’t make a bowl of spaghetti bolognaise. We’ve been over it, you agreed!” John spoke softly, but the military edge was creeping into his voice. “Look, all we’ve got to do is put the sauce on to simmer and then it’s done. And if you don’t you’ll just have to miss out on the little surprise I had planned for you.”

Their eyes met across the saucepan, the dark almost pleading with its pearly blue counterparts. They did this often whilst at home, just the two of them, not needing to speak but instead communicating purely by miniscule movements of the body. John’s eyebrows arched just a fraction, hinting at the black bag he knew Sherlock knew was underneath their bed. Almost immediately the taller man’s lips curled into a wry smile which he attempted to hide in a typical Sherlockian fashion by huffing back to the task currently at hand.   
For a moment all was well. Then a very acrid smell began to pervade the kitchen, followed a moment later by a disproportionately loud bang. On instinct John dived for Sherlock, knocking him to the ground with the force of his movement, the two of them landing entwined on the cold tiled floor. Cautiously John looked up, his eyes scanning the room for the bullet holes and snipers and instead settling on a sight which beat even John’s self control to smithereens. It seemed the explosion had originated from the culinary trials as Sherlock lay beneath him, his dark hair not just speckled but splattered in thick, red sauce. A tiny piece of badly cut tomato lay nestled in the crook of a curl and all of a sudden a raucous laugh forced itself from John’s throat. Sherlock, his utterly perfect boyfriend, lay on the floor looking very much like he’d been the victim of a particularly severe food fight. John’s chuckles seemed to bring Sherlock back to his senses and he lifted up his head, his expression first puzzled then cracking into one of his trademark grins, the kind that made John’s heart twinge and any coherent thoughts flee for the hills. 

“John, I think there might be something on your face.” Sherlock said mock-seriously. John yanked a hand from below Sherlock’s chest and pressed it to his stubbled cheek, recoiling with surprise at the moist surface he found beneath his fingers. 

“Your hair’s in a fairly similar state.” John replied, coyly running his hands through the midnight curls nevertheless. The action was responded to immediately with a pair of nimble fingers at the top buttons on John’s shirt, those alabaster spiders working quickly until they found themselves nearing the warm mound now protruding through the dark denim of his jeans. With a sigh that definitely wasn’t anything to do with disappointment, John promised himself the cookery lessons would have to continue another day. After all this one hadn’t turned out too badly.


End file.
